The river did not release them gently.
It spat them onto the bank in a rush of sound and cold, water slapping against stone, reeds bending under the sudden violence of their bodies breaking free. For a long moment, neither of them moved.
The forest pressed close, breathing around them, wet leaves, dripping branches, the distant murmur of the waterfall they had escaped.
Bella was the first to rise.
Her shoes squelched as she stepped back from the water, chest still rising too fast, lungs burning faintly with every inhale. The air felt sharp against her skin, cool and heavy with mist. She dragged wet hair from her face and immediately turned away from Ji-ho, scanning the treeline on instinct, as if danger might still be chasing them through the current.
"Don't stay still," she said quietly. Not sharp. Not panicked. Just certain.
Ji-ho pushed himself upright, muscles trembling from shock and exhaustion. His clothes clung to him like a second skin, heavy and cold, water dripping steadily from the hem of his sleeves.
He followed her lead without question, stepping away from the river, eyes lifting not to her, but to the forest.
It struck him then, almost distantly, how different the world looked.
Not softer. Not kinder.
Clearer.
They stopped several paces apart, backs turned to one another. Bella loosened the ties of her soaked outer garment and slipped it from her shoulders, the fabric making a wet, muffled sound as she wrung it between her hands. Steam rose faintly where her warmth met the chill air.
She kept her senses open: the sigh of wind through pine needles, the soft tick of water droplets striking stone, the faraway call of a bird she didn't recognize. No voices. No metal. No horns.
For now, they were alone.
Behind her, Ji-ho did the same. He removed his robe with deliberate movements, squeezing water from the cloth, shaking it out before laying it across a low branch to drip. He found himself pausing often, listening. The forest was no longer just a backdrop to him, it was a living thing, one that could hide both refuge and threat.
He was now aware of its dangers.
He noticed how the wind shifted uphill. How the river masked sound. How footprints would vanish quickly in mud like this.
When had he started thinking this way?
Bella finished dressing first, tugging the damp fabric back into place, rolling her shoulders as if grounding herself in her body again. She turned just as Ji-ho stepped closer, too close.
He froze.
"I— I'm sorry," he said quickly, eyes darting away.
Bella blinked once, then waved it off. "It's fine. I was already dressed." Her voice was calm, almost amused, but her attention never fully left the forest. "You alright?"
"You sure?" She asked him the second time, because for all she had know, he almost drowned.
He nodded, then hesitated. "How do we find Poong Yeon?"
She crouched, pressing her fingers into the wet earth. "First, we figure out where the river took us. This isn't where we entered." She lifted her hand, studying the direction of the slope. "Still within the region I think , but not where the search lines are. The current carried us east."
Ji-ho absorbed this quietly. "So we track him. Not the other way around."
Bella glanced up at him, something like approval flickering in her eyes. "Exactly."
They moved carefully after that, avoiding open paths, slipping between trees where the undergrowth was thick enough to hide their trail. Bella read the forest like a language she had always known, bent grass, snapped twigs, the faint scuff of disturbed soil. Ji-ho stayed close, not clinging, not lagging. Watching. Learning.
After a while, his steps slowed.
Bella noticed immediately.
"You're breathing sounds funny," she said, not turning around.
He hesitated. "It… burns. Here." He pressed a hand lightly to his chest. "Like there's still water inside."
She stopped at once, turning to face him. Her eyes softened, sharp concern cutting through her composure. "That's normal after nearly drowning," she said. "Your lungs are angry. They're reminding you they almost failed."
He gave a weak huff of a laugh. "They're very vocal about it."
She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "Any dizziness? Tightness?"
"No," he said after checking himself. "Just… soreness. And embarrassment."
Bella raised an eyebrow. "Embarrassment?"
He looked away. "I don't know how to swim properly."
She blinked. Once. Then stared at him. "You're telling me the Crown Prince of Joseon doesn't know how to swim?"
He winced. "When you say it like that—"
"When else would I say it?" she cut in, incredulous, then paused. Her expression shifted from teasing to thoughtful. "Wait. They never taught you?"
"No," he said simply. "It wasn't considered necessary. I was never meant to be near the sea. Or rivers. Or caves filled with water," he added dryly.
Bella snorted before she could stop herself. "That's… incredibly short-sighted of the Royal house."
He smiled faintly. "I nearly drowned today because of it."
She tilted her head, studying him, then said lightly, "You weren't that bad. But you know, if I hadn't been there, you might actually be dead."
He met her gaze. "I know."
The silence that followed wasn't heavy. Just honest.
Then she nudged him with her shoulder. "Good thing I was there, huh?"
He laughed this time, real and unguarded. "Grateful."
They resumed walking, slower now.
After a moment, Bella said, "When we get back… do you want me to teach you?"
He glanced at her. "Teach me what?"
"How to swim. Properly. How to control your breath. How not to panic underwater."
His eyes widened slightly. "You would do that?"
"Of course," she said. "I won't always be around to rescue you, you know."
He smiled, then teased softly, "So no more life-saving kisses?"
She rolled her eyes. "Absolutely not. I'm not kissing you every time you forget how to breathe. I'd slap you instead."
They both laughed, the sound brief but warm, dissolving the lingering fear still clinging to them like damp clothes.
And as they walked on, Ji-ho realized something had shifted, not just in how he looked at the forest, or danger, or survival… but in how easily he trusted her with the parts of himself the palace had never prepared him for.
The forest thinned as dusk settled in, light turning amber and then blue. Smoke reached them before they saw the house.
It was small, weather-worn, tucked between trees like it had learned how to hide. An older woman stood outside, adjusting firewood. She looked up as they approached, eyes sharp, measuring, and then soft.
"You're far from the main path," she said. "Lost, are you?"
Bella inclined her head. "Temporarily."
The woman studied their damp clothes, their exhaustion, the way Ji-ho stood slightly behind Bella without being commanded to. She nodded once. "You can stay the night."
Inside, warmth wrapped around them, fire crackling, the scent of rice and herbs, wood smoke clinging to the low ceiling. A young man sat near the hearth, one leg drawn awkwardly beneath him, the other ending abruptly where cloth was carefully folded and bound. His hands were strong. His eyes were tired.
As they ate, the woman spoke only after the bowls had been cleared and the fire had settled into a low, steady glow. Outside, the night insects sang in uneven rhythms, and somewhere beyond the trees, the forest exhaled, deep, watchful, older than grief.
"My husband went on a tiger hunt," she said at last.
Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, fingers worn and cracked from work. She did not look at Bella as she spoke, but at the fire, as if the flames carried the memory for her.
"He said it would fetch him a generous income that would help sustain us through the coming winter that year. But he did not return."
The words were simple. Too simple for what they carried.
Bella felt Ji-ho shift beside her, felt the tension in his shoulders sharpen, but the woman continued before either of them could speak.
"My son did." A pause. Then, quieter, "But with less of himself than he left with."
From the corner of the room came the soft scrape of wood against floor—her son adjusting his weight, saying nothing. The silence wrapped around him protectively, as though the house itself knew better than to ask for more.
"The tiger is dead now," the woman went on. "They say it fell beneath a foreign blade. That the forest has been quieter since."
She finally lifted her gaze.
Her eyes found Bella's.
"I recognized you for the tales they tell," she said softly.
Bella's breath caught.
"They spoke of a woman with coiled brown hair, and green eyes like jades," the woman continued, voice steady but reverent, "who did not belong to these lands. They said she walked beside a young man who looked like a noble and carried himself with pride. They said that she faced the beast without fear."
Bella swallowed. "I didn't—" She stopped, unsure what she meant to deny. The kill? The legend? The way stories grew teeth of their own?
The woman gave a faint, sad smile. "You ended my husband's killer," she said. "And spared my son from living the rest of his life knowing the tiger still breathed somewhere in the dark."
She bowed her head, not deeply, not formally, but enough that the weight of it pressed into Bella's chest.
"For that," she said, "my house is yours tonight."
The fire crackled softly between them.
Bella said nothing. She couldn't. The praise felt heavy, undeserved, tangled with blood and loss and a violence she had never intended to become a story.
Ji-ho watched her then, not as a prince, not as someone used to legends, but as someone witnessing the cost of them.
Outside, the forest stirred. But it did not roar.
And for the first time since the tiger's death, Bella understood that what followed her now was not fame, but stories for history.
Bella stared at her bowl. "I didn't know it traveled that far."
"Good deeds echo, and so does hope." the woman replied simply.
The room was dark but not empty.
Moonlight slipped through the thin paper window, laying pale bars across the floor where they lay on opposite sides of the small space. Straw mats whispered softly beneath every breath, every shift of weight. Outside, the village slept. Somewhere farther still, the forest murmured, leaves brushing one another, the low, distant creak of branches swaying like old bones.
Bella lay on her back, eyes open, hands folded loosely over her stomach.
Sleep would not come.
"What if…" Her voice was quiet, careful not to wake the house. "What if we hadn't killed the tigers?"
Ji-ho turned his head slightly. He hadn't been asleep either.
"What if they'd found us first?" she continued. "What if they'd eaten us before anyone ever knew we were there?" She swallowed. "What if the stories never got told. What if no one was avenged."
The air felt heavier after that, as if the question itself had weight.
"Would it have continued? The killing cycle?" she asked, softer now. "That kind of tragedy. Passed down. Father to son. Widow to widow." A pause. "Would it have just… gone on?"
Ji-ho stared up at the ceiling, the wooden beams faintly outlined above him. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he drew a slow breath, feeling the pull in his still-sore lungs, the ache that reminded him how close death had come.
"Yes," he said honestly. "It would have."
Bella turned her head to look at him.
"But," he added, voice steadier now, "it didn't."
Silence settled again, thicker than before.
"You wonder if it was chance," he went on. "If you were only there because the road lead us through that way. Because the river carried you where it pleased."
Her fingers curled slightly against the mat.
"I do," she admitted.
Ji-ho shifted onto his side, facing her now, though there was still distance between them, just enough to keep the moment fragile.
"Where you come from," he said slowly, choosing each word, "perhaps you were never meant to do something like this there. To kill. To stand between a beast and people who could not defend themselves."
Bella's breath caught, just a little.
"But here," he continued, eyes steady on her silhouette, "you were."
The night seemed to lean closer.
"Maybe purpose is not always chosen," he said. "Maybe it finds us where we are needed most. And maybe…" His voice softened. "…maybe you were sent, not to hide but to be seen, to be remembered in legends… to stop terrible things from continuing. To put an end to an endless cycle."
Bella's chest rose and fell. Once. Twice.
"You speak like this is fate," she said quietly.
He didn't look away. "I speak like I am alive because of you."
That landed between them, gentle, but undeniable.
"Ji-ho," Bella said after a long silence. "When you become king… what kind of ruler do you want to be?"
He didn't answer right away.
"I don't want people crushed by class," he said finally. "I don't want hunger disguised as law. I want fewer taxes for those who already give everything. I want my children to choose who they love. I want the court to stop pulling my life apart and calling it governance."
Bella watched him closely. "And marriage?"
His gaze lifted to hers. Steady. Unmistakable.
She swallowed. "What if I have to go back?"
The question hung between them like breath in winter.
Far away, in the palace, the night wore a different face.
Lanterns burned low along the inner hall, their flames trembling behind silk shades, casting long, wavering shadows across polished stone. The air smelled faintly of incense and old wood, comforting, oppressive, eternal.
Beyond the walls, the palace slept, but here, sleep was forbidden.
The Queen Dowager faced her son beneath the lantern light in her chamber.
Time had etched its authority into her posture. She did not need to raise her voice. The weight of her presence did the work for her.
"We cannot wait any longer," the king said, hands clasped behind his back. His gaze lingered on the map spread across the table, rivers traced in ink, forests marked like wounds. "If Ji-ho is still alive, every hour matters."
The Queen Dowager watched him closely. Too closely.
"You have already sent Poong Yeon," she said. "And now you wish to send more."
"Yes." His jaw tightened. "The best of them. Men who answer only to the me."
A flicker of something, approval, perhaps, passed through her eyes. Then it was gone.
"The Prime Minister watches," she warned. "He always has. Especially on the matter of the prince."
The lantern flame shuddered, as if stirred by her words.
The king exhaled slowly. Of course. Even here, in the inner quarters, the man's shadow stretched long. Ministers bowed, officials whispered, and servants listened more than they spoke. Power, once shared, was never truly returned.
"He will notice if too many guards are deployed," the Queen Dowager continued. "He will ask why. And when he asks, others will begin to ask as well."
"They are royal guards," the king said. "Their loyalty is sworn me."
"Loyalty bends," she replied calmly. "Especially when gold, fear, or ambition presses hard enough."
Silence fell between them, thick and deliberate.
"The Prime Minister helped you secure this throne," she said at last, voice lower now. "He reminds you of that every time you hesitate. But do not forget, he did not help you for free."
The king's fingers curled slightly. He knew this. He had always known. The crown on his head had never felt entirely his own.
"He will not stop at guiding how you rule," she went on. "If he senses weakness, he will decide how your son lives. And if given the chance…" Her gaze sharpened. "…who comes after him."
That struck deeper than any accusation.
The king turned back to the map. To the roads leading away from the palace. To the forests where his son might be breathing or might already be gone.
"I will send them quietly," he said finally. "Individually. Under ordinary orders. No banners. No announcements."
The Queen Dowager studied him for a long moment, then inclined her head, just slightly.
"Good," she said. "Move like a shadow, not a storm."
Her gaze softened, just enough to remind him she was still his mother.
"Find your son," she added. "But remember…every step you take is being measured."
The lantern hissed softly as oil fed the flame.
And somewhere in the palace, unseen and uninvited, the Prime Minister's attention shifted, ever so slightly, toward the darkness beyond the walls.